Chapter 5 - The King at the Head of the TableClara stood beside the wheelchair, her fingers still wrapped around the silver cross, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as the heavy footsteps shook the wooden stairs outside Room 5A.
The heavy oak door did not turn on its hinges.
It exploded inward off its iron frame under the concussive force of Dante Bellini’s size-twelve tactical boot.
Dante stepped through the splintered threshold, his dark eyes ablaze with the promise of slaughter, a customized automatic pistol drawn and leveled at chest height.
Behind him crowded eight armed commandos, their carbines tracking across the room.
And behind the soldiers stood Mrs. Vane, her face twisted in triumphant, venomous malice as she pointed a manicured finger at Clara.
“There she is, Mr. Bellini!” Mrs. Vane shrieked, pushing past the guards. “The thieving scullery maid! She broke into the tower to steal the family heirlooms! She must have tripped the rusted wire while she was rifling through your father’s pockets! Shoot her down where she stands!”
Dante took half a step forward, his gun raised, his amber eyes narrowing onto Clara’s trembling frame.
He saw the torn gray uniform dress. He saw the dark, bleeding scratch across her cheekbone, the purple fingerprint bruises encircling her wrists, and the seven-month swell of her belly.
“Drop whatever is in your hands, girl,” Dante commanded, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that shook the dust from the rafters.
Clara did not drop the cross.
She looked straight into the eyes of the most feared mob boss in Chicago, stepped in front of the wheelchair, and held the silver lion high into the light of the fire.
“He is not dead,” Clara said, her voice clear, level, and ringing with absolute, fearless defiance. “He is not demented. And while you were signing checks to doctors in downtown penthouses, your housekeeper was feeding your father cold mutton trimmings and beating him in the dark!”
“Lies! Filthy, gutter lies!” Mrs. Vane screamed, lunging forward with her fingernails bared to claw at Clara’s eyes.
She never reached her.
From the depths of the battered wooden wheelchair, a movement caught the peripheral vision of every man in the room.
Antonio Bellini did not wait to be spoken to.
With an agonizing, titanic effort that defied eight years of medical science, the sixty-eight-year-old sovereign pushed himself upright using the cracked armrests of his chair.
His withered legs shook violently beneath his frayed trousers, but his spine was locked into solid granite.
He stood on his own two feet.
Six feet two inches of awakened, apocalyptic fury, his silver hair wild, his dark eyes burning with the unholy fire of a king who had climbed out of his own tomb.
He did not look at his son.
His scarred right hand shot out like an iron claw, catching Mrs. Vane by the throat mid-lunge.
The concussive shock of his grip lifted the hundred-and-forty-pound woman three inches off the floorboards, pinning her against the chimney brick with enough force to crack the mortar.
Mrs. Vane’s eyes bulged against their sockets, her tongue protruding as she clawed frantically at his gnarled, iron fingers.
The sixteen mob bosses, bodyguards, and doctors behind Dante fell to their knees on the floorboards as if they had been struck by an artillery broadside.
Dante’s pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the bare stone.
He stood frozen, his mouth parted, tears finally breaking through his hardened facade and streaming down his scarred cheekbones.
“Father...?” Dante whispered, his voice cracking into a broken, childlike sob.
Antonio did not loosen his grip on the choking housekeeper.
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto his son.
May you like
His jaw moved, and the voice that had ruled the Midwestern underworld for thirty years boomed through the freezing attic like thunder rolling across Lake Michigan:
“You let a dog... starve your father, Dante.”
Related Stories
